Pilgrim (24 page)

“Whatever can be happening?” she said, when she had told her story. “It frightens me to see her so unlike herself this way.”

Forster’s room was on the top floor,
under the eaves
, as he put it.
Under the eaves, as befits a lifelong servant.

Phoebe sat in the only chair. Forster sat on his bed. He offered her a glass of beer, which she declined.

“I’ve seen enough of alcohol, what with Madam, though I do admit I like a bit with my supper in the evenings. But I should never sit with a gentlemen and drink it in his bedroom. I hope you’re not offended.”

“Not at all.”

Phoebe looked away and bit her lip. “Oh, what shall I do?” she said.

“I should sit it out, if I was you,” said Forster. “That’s what I’m having to do—sit here waiting, while God knows what they’re doing to him over there.” He gestured to the window.

“You mean Mister Pilgrim?”

“Yes. I mean Mister Pilgrim. I tried now five times
to get to see him, but they won’t let me near him. They say he’s silent and will speak to no one. That and the fact there’s doctors round him all the time. Every waking hour, someone’s got an eye on him, they tell me. Sort of like they don’t trust him not to try again. Poor man. I should want to go home, if I was him.”

“I want to go home,” said Phoebe. “I don’t like it here. I don’t like the way they all go on. All of them strangers, except yourself—except Her Ladyship. No one smiles at you. They all speak German. They treat me disdainful, as if I’m less than nothing and I hate it. And notes come from strangers. There must have been three by now—handed in through the door. Just a footman brings them and won’t say nothing.”

“You know who they’re from?”

“Of course not. I can’t hardly open them, can I? And they all come in sealed envelopes so, if I tried to look, she’d know.”

“Other day, she met someone in the lobby,” Forster said. “Nice-looking young couple. Spoke with them for some time. You know that?”

“No. Her Ladyship? When? What other day?”

“Day before yesterday. Day before that. I don’t remember. I was passing through on my way in from trying to see Mister Pilgrim one more time and there she was with perfect strangers. Struck me as odd. She saw me, I think, but she made no sign. I went on into the bar and had a glass and when I came back out, she was still there.”

“How long? I mean—in the bar?”

“Twenty—maybe twenty-five minutes. Like I said,
a nice young couple. Well-dressed. Her class, I shouldn’t doubt. He had a kind of military bearing. Like her own son he might have been. If I didn’t know the son, I mean—Earl Hartford. Same age. Could’ve been a friend of his, come to think of it. Someone from schooldays. You know—Sandhurst sort of thing.”

“But they were strangers. You said so.”

“Yes. Clear’s can be. She didn’t begin to know them. A person can tell. But it could be they knew her—through the Earl, you see, her son. It’s possible. ’Cept, now that I think of it, they were speaking a foreign language when I passed the first time. Maybe French. I couldn’t hear too well.”

“Have you seen them since?”

“In the distance, yes. On their way in—on their way out—waiting for the lift. Times like that.”

“Did it seem like a serious conversation, or what?”

“With Lady Quartermaine? I should say somewhat serious. Yes. There wasn’t much smiling. Young man never sat down, but the young woman—his wife, I take it—sat in a chair next to Her Ladyship.”

“It’s them that’s sending the notes, then. Say it was one of Mister Pilgrim’s doctors who was sending them, there’d be an address on the back. But what came through the door was on hotel stationery. So it must be them.”

“See if you can nick one of the notes next time she isn’t looking. Might as well know. In the meantime, keep your chin up. If she turns worse, come and get me.”

Phoebe rose to leave and turned at the door to
thank Forster for having listened to her. “I get fair lonely down there with just her—and her in this condition.”

“Not to worry,” said Forster. “Think what it’s like up here—and me with my man in what might be a prison, far as I can tell. But we’ll all get through it. Wait and see. Cheerio, then.”

“Yes,” Phoebe said rather wistfully. “Cheerio, Mister Forster. And good afternoon.”

On the third day, Lady Quartermaine sent down for hotel stationery to augment her own dwindling stock of Portman Place blue-and-grey vellum.
Envelopes too, please.
This day, she ate nothing, but ordered wine and whisky, drinking steadily but soberly through the afternoon till twilight. Telephone calls were placed more than once, but Phoebe could not make out the words—but one:
messenger.
When she went in to see if an evening meal would be required, she found Her Ladyship lying on the floor and a lighted cigarette burning in the ashtray.

On the desk, there were letters addressed to each of her five children, her husband, Mister Pilgrim and to Doctor Jung. The latter epistle appeared to be unfinished and sat half inside its envelope. None was addressed to strangers.

Phoebe attempted to rouse her mistress but could not. She debated telephoning for help in reviving her, but thought better of it.
Think of the scandal,
she said to herself, and covered Madam where she lay with a cashmere blanket—blue and violet woven in a madras
tartan that was Her Ladyship’s talisman and travelled with her everywhere.

At nine, Phoebe went to see that all was well and found her mistress had retired to her bed. Phoebe left the door ajar and the bathroom light turned on and took the liberty of telephoning to the kitchen for sandwiches and beer. At midnight, she retired to her own small bedroom off the sitting-room and, rising at six, found that Her Ladyship’s door was locked again.

On the fourth day, Madam sent down for wrapping paper, string and shears.

A small lunch was taken, consisting of a dozen oysters and a bottle of champagne.

In the afternoon, at four o’clock, Phoebe was called in to help her mistress dress for tea. A guest was expected—but no guest arrived. What did arrive was another envelope.

Was Forster available?

Phoebe went to see, but found he was absent. She had taken the envelope with her. Now it was in her hand. How might she open it?

Through one of the doorways on Mister Forster’s floor she spied a maid who was ironing pillowslips…

Phoebe went in, held up the envelope and smiled.

“
Bitte?
” the maid asked.

Phoebe mimed trying to lift the flap. She gestured towards the iron and held out the envelope. Taking it, the maid smiled wisely.

At once, she scattered a bit of water on the back of the envelope and lightly applied the iron. Steam rose.
Then, triumphantly, she fingered the flap open and said: “
Sie wollen wissen…? Ja?”

Phoebe retrieved the envelope and said: “
danke
,” the one German word she knew, having used it so often on receipt of the multiple breakfasts. Then, not knowing what else to do, she curtsied and went back into the corridor.

At the top of the stairs, she paused and extracted a single folded sheet of paper. On it was written:
Tomorrow
, and then, as signature:
Messager.
That was all.
Tomorrow—Messager.
It was meaningless.

Phoebe folded the page and put it back in its place, licked the flap of the envelope, sealed it and smoothed it out against her skirt—and went her way.

Half an hour later, a messenger was summoned and when he arrived, Her Ladyship presented him with an envelope addressed to
Herr Doktor C.G. Jung
at the Burghölzli Psychiatric Clinic, Zürich. Also six brown paper parcels addressed to Herr Doktor.

When the messenger had gone, his thinly clad legs and muscular backside closely observed by Phoebe Peebles, Madam closed and locked her door, explaining that she would rest until seven. At seven-thirty, a supper of cold roast beef, some Spanish green beans, a chafing-dish of scalloped potatoes, two bottles of wine and a decanter of cognac was ordered. At eight, the meal arrived, to be eaten in the sitting-room at a table near the window. Once it was all in place and the waiter sent away, Phoebe was told she might have the evening to herself, so long as she returned by ten.

Phoebe ate down the street in the dining-room of a
Bierlokal
and lingered there until nine-thirty, half hoping, half dreaming her messenger might turn up for an evening beer. But no such luck. Still, the dreaming of him was pleasant enough. The air outside, as she made her way back to the Hôtel Baur au Lac, held for the very first time the promise of spring.

Madam’s supper had been mostly eaten and one bottle emptied. The second bottle and the decanter had been retired with Madam to her bedroom.

On her own bed, Phoebe found an envelope with a note which read:
I have ordered the car for eleven o’clock and will be driving in the mountains. I expect to return by late afternoon. You may have the day off to do as you will. I trust your evening was pleasant.

Tucked inside the envelope was a five-franc note. Almost a full week’s wages.

On the morning of the fifth day, it being the 14th of May, Her Ladyship rose and unlocked her door at eight o’clock. A light breakfast had been ordered and was consumed. Madam tubbed—and Phoebe helped her to dress in her blue tweed suit, black boots and her coat of black lamb.

At eleven, Otto arrived with the silver Daimler. Much to Phoebe’s surprise, Her Ladyship kissed her
ever so kindly
on the cheek as she departed.

That was the last they saw of one another, except that Phoebe was asked the next day—a Wednesday—to select a black gown from madam’s wardrobe and deliver it to the mortuary. On this occasion, Phoebe said her last farewell.

High in the Albis Pass to the west of the Zürichsee, on a winding road that seemed to make its way directly to the sun, an avalanche had occurred—and Sybil Quartermaine, her chauffeur Otto Mohr and the silver Daimler had been swept away into oblivion.

On the writing desk from which she had dispatched her final message to Doctor Jung were seven envelopes—blue and grey and hotel beige—and a folded note.

The note was addressed to
Miss Phoebe Peebles
, and concluded with
be a good girl and do as Mister Forster advises. All will be well, as you will see. In the meantime, thank you, my dear. Goodbye.

It was the first warm day of the year. All around the lake, as Jung had promised, the daffodils and crocuses crested what remained of the snow, and doves from the cathedral flew down into the square and walked amongst the people on the ground.

13

Late on the evening of Tuesday, the 14th of May, Jung had not long returned to Küsnacht from his duties at the Clinic when Lotte came to his study and informed him that a messenger had arrived who would not depart until he had spoken to Jung himself.

“How troublesome. Where has he come from?”

“From Lady Quartermaine at the Hôtel Baur au Lac, Herr Doktor. He says that she told him he must
deliver what he has brought into your own hands and to none other.”

“Very well—show him through.”

When the messenger entered, he placed six brown paper parcels on the library table and handed Jung an envelope.

“My instructions were to see that you understood the contents before I could take my leave, Herr Doktor.”

“I see.” Jung, cutting the envelope with a pair of scissors, removed and read the letter it contained, while the messenger stood to one side and scratched his thigh.

My dear Doctor Jung,

How pleasant and how reassuring it has been to make your acquaintance. Since I must now leave my dear old friend in your hands, I feel that I can do so with confidence. I suspect that no one is better qualified to guide him through this present crisis than yourself.

Be patient. He will respond. I have no doubts of this and trust you to persevere in behalf of his sanity. What a pity I am unable to continue as your confidante in this matter, but circumstances beyond my control compel me to take my leave.

As a consequence, I am having Mister Pilgrim’s six remaining journals delivered to you by the present messenger, each of them under separate cover. There is good reason for this, which I must trust you to take into account. The order in which they are to be read is of the utmost importance. If it was within my power to command your obedience in this matter, I should do
so, and had indeed expected to be dealing them to you one by one. Alas, this is not to be. Please believe me, the order is vital. Without it, there can be no comprehension of Mister Pilgrim’s dilemma. In certain matters that govern all our lives, there are decisions we must make alone—and some of these demand complete secrecy. This is the position I find myself in at the moment. There is nothing I am at liberty to tell you that would explain my present actions. Time may tell all, as is its wont. We shall see.

I said early on, whether to you or to Doctor Furtwängler, that aspects of Mister Pilgrim’s present condition cannot be clarified by rational means. I urge you to invest your trust in my friend’s apparent fabrications, if only because of his desperate need to be believed. In seeming to lie, he struggles to deliver truths. I hope this explanation will help. He longs to be released from what he calls the dread necessity of self—an identity whose burden he can no longer bear. I can tell you nothing more profound than that about my friend.

In one of our early encounters, I asked you if you believed in God. Your answer, as I think I may have said at the time, was droll. You remarked that you could not believe in God before nine o’clock in the morning. Taking that at face value, I can only assume that the subject of the Almighty is somewhat alarming to you and that mere chat cannot encompass Him. I would agree with this, though I remain somewhat sorry that we did not pursue the subject. I should like to have known your views before I depart.
You will speak of God with Mister Pilgrim, of that I can assure you. Tell him, when you do, that my final thought on the matter of belief was this: In the wilderness, I found an altar with this inscription:
TO THE UNKNOWN GOD
…
And I have made my sacrifice accordingly.